


Old Rituals

by Orchidaexa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blessings, But it's open as to which Hale, But it's up to you which Hale you read it as, Chases, Extremely Dubious Consent, Full Shift Werewolves, Honestly it's implied that the God in question is a Hale, I wrote it thinking of Derek, Implied Mpreg, Knotting, M/M, Pagan Gods, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sacrifice, Sexual Coercion, Teratophilia, Virgin Sacrifice, Werewolf origin myth, Xenophilia, full shift sex, wolf gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orchidaexa/pseuds/Orchidaexa
Summary: The village is suffering, and Stiles has been volunteered to fix it.The God he calls wants something in return.
Relationships: Stiles Stilinski/An Unnamed Hale
Comments: 14
Kudos: 104





	Old Rituals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LivviBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivviBee/gifts), [TellMeNoAgain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/gifts), [Tarvera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarvera/gifts).



> Listen, tagging this was a nightmare. Like the relationship!!! Tagging Stiles/A God wasn't going to work so instead you get this abomination of a tag.
> 
> Anyway.  
> Thank you to Livvi and CJ for riffing this with me, and a huge thanks to Sarah for giving this a quick look over and reassuring me.
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR  
> START AS YOU MEAN TO GO ON

The wind howls outside the temple, a wind that is far far too cold for this time of year. But that's why Stiles is here, to beg for the favour of their Gods. He has been volunteered, the only person with youth and knowledge of the old rituals. It's an unfortunate turn of events, and even as his heart pounds, he soothes himself with thoughts of Lydia, his Dad, _Scott_. 

He bends his head, bends his knee, his loose robes puddling around him, and begins to pray. He prays for the Gods of the moon and the sun, who forever race across the sky in their eternal hunt. He prays to the God who will chase away the dark and the cold, who will chase away the disease and the ill luck that has befell the village. 

The full moon is above him, clouds racing across the sky, illuminating the altar in a constant play of dark and light. Stiles draws the ceremonial dagger across his palm, his hands shaking. The wind's howls rise to a fever pitch as he presses his hand to the centre of the altar, blood smearing, and he takes a deep breath in. 

He calls in the language of the gods, the language of ancients, appealing to them. "I call to you, oh blessed Gods of the Moon and Sun!" he begins, and falls into his spiel. He calls upon everything he can think the God of the chase might possibly be, hand still pressed into the altar. Finally, with the howls of the wind becoming howls of wolves, Stiles squeezes his eyes closed, and speaks for the last time. He feels the desperation, the need that is deep within his soul, the desire to protect his village and family, and raises his voice above the gale outside. "I call you," he says, "hear my plea!" 

The howls drop immediately, and for a moment, Stiles is worried that nothing will happen. He doesn't move his hand from the altar, staring up at the clear sky, the full moon that is somehow brighter and bigger than when he started. 

Then a low howl starts, and it thrums through his veins, a call that is otherworldly with how it crawls up his spine and into his brain. It shakes the stones, shakes the foundation of the temple, and Stiles swallows hard. His fear is crescendoing, each moment that passes an extra heartbeat of anxious anticipation. 

_You called_ , comes a voice, and Stiles startles, his rabbit heart beating out his chest. _You would beg the favour of the Gods_. 

Stiles turns slowly, meeting bright red eyes. The God slavers, drool dripping to the tiled floor. Rather than puddling there, it dissipates into a shimmer of nothingness. _And for what?_

Shivering under the gaze of the God, Stiles slowly peels his hand off the altar, kneeling in supplication before him. His voice catches as he speaks. "I- My village. The cold, the disease, the winds, we need you to chase them away." 

The God stalks close, seamlessly changing from wolf to a monstrous two-legged form, muscles bulging, maw hanging open in something that seems almost like condescending amusement. _The wheel of the years turns,_ says the God, _the decades and centuries come and go_. _Why should I answer the plea of a village that has forgotten the old ways?_

Stiles trembles. He knew this was a possibility, he knew it was something on the table. It was why his Dad had hugged him tightly before he left, tears in his eyes. He holds the dagger out to the God, on the palm of his blood soaked hand. 

"I offer myself to you," says Stiles, his voice trembling and cracking. His rabbit fast heart skips nervous beats, his chest tight. "A life for your favour." 

The God laughs, darkly, and his massive clawed hand covers the dagger. _I need no implement to cause you harm,_ he states. The weight of the dagger vanishes from Stiles' hand anyway, disappearing into the air. _You will make good prey._

Swallowing, frozen, Stiles stares at the God.

A smile splits his canine face. _Run._

It takes a heartbeat for Stiles to obey, haring away, out the closest entrance. He runs, hitching his robe up, ignoring it as it snags, and tugs. His heart pounds in his chest, blood rushing in his ears, a constant thrum that blocks out the ambient noise. But Stiles hears the howl, the declaration of the start of the _hunt_ , and he realises that this is what he is giving his God. He is giving his God the _chase_ that he desires, becoming wily prey. The terror rises and falls in him; he realises he will not make it out alive from this hunt, but if he gives the God a good hunt, he will surely bless the village.

His feet pound the ground, blood in the back of his throat as his lungs heave, and he runs and _runs_. Perhaps Stiles has been blessed this time, he is fleet footed and his steps are sure, and he doesn’t stumble on the exposed roots or banks. A blessing to make the game more fun for a God that chases, that hunts. Knowing he has to make it difficult for the deity, he splashes along narrow streams, coats himself in mud to disguise his scent, climbs trees and clambers between them, giving the God a harder path to follow. Stiles knows he will not outrun this wild being, but he can ensure that the God blesses the village well.

The moon is starting to set when the God catches up to him, snapping twigs intentionally, rumbling from the trees. His white robe is filthy, ripped, and there are small bloodstains from where Stiles has caught his arms and legs on brambles, on sharp thorns and branches.

 _A good hunt, little fox,_ comes the God's voice, not yet revealing himself. Stiles shudders, and sharply turns, racing through pines that tower over him like sentries. _You have amused me_ , the voice says, resonating through every cell of Stiles' body, a paw catching on his ankle. He manages to escape it without stumbling. 

Another brush, and heavy paws land on his back. Stiles tips forwards, letting out a frightened yelp, his heart hammering and thrumming, the breath forced out upon impact with the ground. Pain throbs from his tongue, and Stiles can taste his own blood. He spits at the ferric flavour, trying to rid his mouth of the flood, and it's bright red as it splatters on the pine needles in front of him. 

Drool wets his hair. _I might let you live,_ muses the God, with his voice reverberating through him, _I might still tear your throat out. With my teeth._ There is amusement there, and Stiles discovers the horrifying sensation of having pleased a God. There is the sensation of fur against his back, despite the cloth robe. A slick, fleshy length presses against his back, wetting the fabric with the slick wetness of excitement.

Shuddering in fear, Stiles closes his eyes tight, trying to ignore where this is going. Instead, he feels an invasive pressure inside his head, just for a moment, before the God presses his body closer, weighing him down with crushing pressure. _You are untouched,_ says the God, and his heated, slick tongue laves up the back of Stiles’ neck. _A perfect sacrifice_.

Stiles’ robe bunches at the back, crumpling as it’s pushed upwards by a rutting cock, and he tries to come unstuck from his freeze of fear. “Please, don’t,” he whimpers, quiet, speaking into the musty earth beneath him. “Please.”

The God pauses. _You would condemn your village and have me take your life anyway?_ His question comes with the image of a perfectly arched eyebrow, the condescending query of someone who knows he holds all the power.

Digging his fingers into the damp soil, Stiles swallows, trying to hold back the pressure of tears. “I- I- You can take-” He swallows again, gulping around the lump that is balled at the back of his throat. “You can have- I agreed.”

 _You did,_ says the God, a satisfied rumble reverberating the ground beneath him. Teeth snag in his cotton robe and it _rips_ , falling away from Stiles’ body. The pressure behind Stiles’ eyes overwhelms him, and tears begin to leak from the corners, even when he blinks fiercely. There is no choice here, no option for him, not if he wants to ensure the village has the God’s blessing. _You gave your life to me._

The fur is softer than Stiles would have thought possible. It is a brush of gentleness against his skin, in contrast to the cruelty of the sharp teeth that mouth at his neck and shoulders. _Give me your hand_ , says the God, the wolf, and Stiles does as asked, obeying without a second thought, only hoping to keep him happy. The God drools over his fingers, tongue slipping around the digits in a way that somehow connects directly to Stiles’ cock. Despite being terrified—or perhaps _because_ he is terrified—it twitches, filling and firming, becoming heavy with the pulsing of blood. _Prepare yourself,_ the God says, with a last long and dripping lick to Stiles’ fingers. When Stiles pauses, freezing because he has _no idea_ what he’s doing, there’s a distinctly canid snort of amusement. _Your wet fingers, inside your asshole._ Hesitating, Stiles reaches back with a trembling hand, and freezes as the pads of his fingers pressed against his pucker. 

The God loses patience, and snarls. _Now_ , he says, and Stiles whimpers as he presses the first finger inside. He wanted to get all three at once, but his hole is too tight, so only his middle finger slips in. He winces, because he’s too tight for this really, stressed and unsure, and his nails are catching on delicate insides.

There are rumbles of interest, and a cock that is far too corporeal and huge for Stiles' comfort rubs against Stiles' thighs. As Stiles works, his face screwed up in discomfort, the God almost lazily works his length against Stiles' flesh. _Soft,_ he rumbles, and Stiles swallows down his panic. He's heard about this from the village ladies, about their husbands using them this way to avoid children, about their husbands _slipping_ , and Stiles knows he's not really going to be properly prepared. They tend to laugh about oils and creams, pressing these things into the hands of young brides that worry about how they'll avoid children being born when things are busiest. 

With that in mind, he crams in another finger, trying to speed up the process, spreading his hole as best he can, trying hard to be ready. 

The God lolls his tongue against Stiles' cheek, and he shudders again. It's almost an intimate kiss, almost. 

Finally, the God presses his nose, damp and cold, to Stiles' neck. _Enough_ , he says, giving a warm rumble when Stiles obeys, removes his fingers. _Good._

And then it finally happens. The God presses in, his cock slick with his own precum, slicker than Stiles thought possible. He groans, feeling split apart. Even with the slick precum, the sticky slide of spit to ease the way, the friction hurts, it's too much and Stiles' lets out a low moan of pain. His breath hitches, feeling the God's length in his throat, even before he's pushed all the way in. He wants to say something, to get him to wait, to go slower, easier on him, but Stiles knows that if he starts to talk, he'll plead with the God to stop, will condemn his village. It seems endless, filling every nook and cranny inside of him. 

Internally, he begs for strength, and lifts his head to find something to watch that isn't the cold earth beneath him. Stiles is surprised to see the gray light of dawn filtering around him, finding himself in the precious time before the sun actually rises. He even makes a startled noise, before the God twitches his hips and punches a long groan from Stiles. If he had anything in his stomach right now, he'd be worried about throwing it up, with the way that the God's length presses inside of him. Drool drips into Stiles’ hair, pooling on the ground. It’s a sick version of anointment, blessing through the uncontrollable desire of something so much more than Stiles is, a concept made corporeal.

Claws scratch at his side, dig in as they drag Stiles back and back and back, forcing him to take everything, only stopping as the God seats himself fully. It's too much, too long, too wide, and Stiles is sure he'd see the outline of the God's cock if he only looked down right now.

Stiles tries to disappear into his head, into a soft space, where he can watch the dawn light spread through the trees. It turns out it’s impossible to ignore a God though, especially when your own cock is thick and heavy and even though his thrusts _hurt_ , even though they pull and push at his insides in painful ways, Stiles can feel his cock throb in time with his wild heartbeat. He shouldn’t be surprised that the God decided to chase him, thinks Stiles deliriously, he reacts like prey. This God is a predator. This God owns his body.

His rabbit fast heart still beats frenziedly, even though Stiles knows he will end up with his blood spilt over the soil, his throat torn from him. He giggles, hysterical, and the God drops his chest again, pushing Stiles into the ground, soil spreading across his face. He feels constricted, constrained, snared like a hare. He'd kick and buck like the hares they catch too, but he needs the blessing for the village, and his traitorous body is reacting. Even though Stiles hates it with every fibre of his being, his cock is swelled, twitching and jerking when a thrust rubs him just right. 

It's only when the knot begins to grow that Stiles feels himself sliding back into his body, and he hates it, wants to escape again. He has seen the village dogs mating, and never did Stiles really think anything besides curiosity would fuel his knowledge of their mating habits. The pine needles under his hands dig into the soft flesh of his palms, biting and indenting. The knot is stretching, filling, the growth wide and filling and pinning him in place. He whimpers, tossing his head as best he can. "Too much," he whispers, digging his fingers into the dirt, even though he can feel the tremulous heat and burn of an oncoming orgasm being wrung out of him. 

The golden light of dawn is starting to filter through the trees, and Stiles lets tears slip free, overstimulated, overwhelmed. He doesn't know if the wolf will kill him as soon as he's finished, or if he will settle in the afterglow before tearing Stiles apart. His cock twitches hard, and Stiles shudders, hating himself just a little more. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fend off the burn, the burn that's spreading through his bloodstream, before staring towards the dawn light, where the sun would be creeping above the horizon if it weren't for the trees. 

There's a rustle, the movement of leaves in Stiles' eyeline. They don't move with the wind, and nothing has dared to approach him or the God while they were locked in their chase, Stiles realises. It's almost startling, and fresh fear floods through him, a new fear, fueling a certain tension to his body, a fresh flush of adrenaline. 

Apparently though, the wolf god doesn't see the movement. He howls, his knot locked inside Stiles now, and with his vast muzzle, he clutches at Stiles' neck, growling and grinding. Stiles is fever warm, can feel the God throbbing inside him, can feel himself twitching at every little tremble and shake that spreads through the God. He must be milking the knot pleasantly, because the growls are lowering to croons, even as the God spills his seed deep inside Stiles. 

A doe steps out the trees, and the God stills. 

_When you are done, it is time for you to go,_ says the doe, the same sort of resonant voice surrounding Stiles, even if it is clear she is talking to the wolf. 

The God growls in response, shaking Stiles just a little. _He is **mine**_ , he responds, and Stiles trembles, his need building with every little movement. He's so, so close, and he slips his hand down to wrap around himself. The doe seems to look on, fond. 

_Fertilise the forest floor,_ she says. Stiles stares up at her through long lashes, mouth open and panting. _Give me your gift, and I will give you mine._

With a last tug on his throbbing dick, Stiles does as she commands, white hot heat carrying him through his orgasm. The God gives a deep crooning growl, and drops Stiles' neck to lick and groom at the teeth marks. 

_Good boy,_ the God hums, quiet. Stiles shakes through the aftershocks, wide eyed. _You have done well._

Stiles freezes up at those words, not ready to die just yet. The doe—the Goddess—steps forward and pushes her velvety nose into Stiles' hairline. _Hush, little one_ , she says, soothing him as best she can. _He has given his blessing, and for your bravery, I will give you mine._

The wolf God's paws are slowly transforming to hands. Not large and clawed, but human. The pressure of the knot releases, and Stiles shudders, muscles failing him, leaving him shivering and naked on the ground. It's a relief that the doe stomps, lowers her head as if to butt, and before Stiles can take a look, the God is gone, his passage marked only by the whisper of the wind in the trees.

 _I cannot undo what has been done,_ the Goddess says, gentle in tone. _But I can help you find your way home._

Nodding, Stiles accepts. She tells him no more of his blessing, and he doesn't ask. She leaves him, just outside the village, and Stiles stumbles to Melissa's house. He is cold, sore, leaking semen that seems to glimmer with the promise of moonlight. He is scratched and bruised and bitten, and absolutely a state. 

In two moons time, he will realise how the doe blessed him, and curse her for it. 

In nine moons time, he will hold his infant son, and watch as his eyes flash gold under the watchful gaze of the full moon, and Stiles will howl his love for his newborn child.

The God will howl back.


End file.
